


Strawberries in the Morning

by therosenpants



Series: Modern Pharoga AU [1]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erik Has Feelings, Erik has Issues, Feelings Realization, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Friendship, New York City, Prompt Fill, References to Depression, and strawberries, daroga tries to solve them with pancakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 00:52:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14557305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therosenpants/pseuds/therosenpants
Summary: There's some things even a stack of pancakes can't fix... But maybe something sweeter can. Ismael just needs to pay attention, and maybe Erik will figure out where he really belongs. — Unabashed hurt/comfort Pharoga fluff.Cross posted on ff.net





	Strawberries in the Morning

Ismael has the sneaking suspicion that Erik is never going to leave.

It hits him suddenly as he's making pancakes. Erik is nursing a hangover at the kitchen counter, the events of the night before positively  _blazing_  on Ismael's memory but miraculously absent from his friend's. Or at least he's avoiding the subject entirely.

It involved copious amounts of tequila, a courageous late night trip to the grocery store, a distinct lack of strawberries at one o'clock in the morning ( _'I hate winter! You can never find decently priced strawberries anywhere!'_ he'd bemoaned), Erik's cell phone being thrown into the Hudson river with Christine's number hopelessly dialing as it hit the water, and the commandeering (translation: grand-theft) of a moderately sized yacht. And he has the bruises to prove it.

"I put it back…" his friend moans as if sensing what Ismael is thinking about. "You never have any fun, Ismael. Why can't we have fun once in a while?"

Ismael notices how lifeless Erik's voice has become. A normal taunt, the expected response to his concern for his behavior. But automatic and sterile. He tries to ignore how hopeless it makes him feel. "Ah, so we  _are_ talking today, eh?"

He spoons the rest of the batter into the pan and dumps the mixing bowl into the sink. He's met with silence again. Typical. He must still be angry with him for throwing out his phone, though he imagines he has her number memorized by now. He could hide his own phone, but nothing would stop Erik if he wanted to call her, really. Her picking up would be another matter entirely, and it would probably make his friend's self-loathing worse (and the police would probably be at his door in ten seconds flat). And it would result in another round of Ismael reminding him he shouldn't even  _be_ here, which Erik would side-step by cleaning  _one dish_  and 'proving' his worth as a houseguest.

And he'd give him a pass.

But he can't  _take_  it anymore! His apartment is a mess of Erik's belongings, his cable and electric bills have skyrocketed due to his guest's latent insomnia and its remedy — reruns of soap operas on pay-per-view — and he has left work early  _three times_ due to emergency text messages that amounted to such dire situations as Erik's inability to find the remote to the TV, or running out of cigarettes ( _God_  the cigarettes). It would be easier to deal with if Erik was paying rent, but the man didn't even have a  _debit card,_ much less a job with any income. Ismael shudders to  _think_  about what kind of credit score his long time annoyance had.

But he assures him this is only temporary. Every time an argument is to be had, it ends with the conclusion that Erik's departure should be imminent. After all, it's only for a little while, until the police stop looking for him, until  _Christine_ can forget about him. Until he won't be recognized for his deformity.

And this is when it hits him — hard, in the chest, like a gunshot to the heart while wearing a bulletproof vest. Erik just isn't  _going_ to leave.

He doesn't feel safe outside anymore. Unless he is secure at the apartment or travelling with Ismael — a former detective with the NYPD — to vouch for him, he is trapped by his own misdoings. It is almost satisfactory to know that the man who once kidnapped a girl so she "had the chance to get to know the  _real_ Erik" was reduced to relying on Ismael for everything.

Almost.

The rest of it is a deep blow to his conscience. It isn't just Christine's rejection that sits heavy on Erik's shoulders, but probably the total loss of his final chance for happiness and security. And if Ismael knew Erik — which he should, with nearly fifteen years of friendship and an unpaid debt for his life — this was all he'd  _ever_  wanted.

Ismael spies him from the corner of his eye. Erik's head now rests in the curve of his folded arms, and the small tremor of his back reveals a wealth of feelings he had not anticipated.

A voice tells him — Erik's voice, in fact, from another time before  _Christine_ — that he has not been paying attention. That this is why he missed all the signs in the first place.  _'Ismael,'_ he said in his mind, _'you've lost your detective touch. Have you really aged so much? Can't keep up with me anymore, old fart?'_

Attempted murder and kidnapping aside, there was a far more egregious crime committed in the past year — that of his own ignorance of Erik's feelings. How could he have been so blind as to assume Erik only needed a place to hide from the police when he barged into his apartment one evening several weeks ago? He had berated him, scolded him, even hit him at one point as they argued that night. And Erik had taken it all in, only scathing and critical when he it was expected of him. The rest of the time, he'd just listened, and nodded, and sighed. Visibly smaller, as though his confidence had shrunk. Was Ismael remembering correctly, or was he imagining the tears behind his mask?

But he is not blind to the problem now. No, he is  _not_.

Erik is  _depressed_.

Perhaps clinically. It is unclear why it hasn't occurred to him until now. When he was a detective himself (oh hell, was that really ten years ago?) he'd come across enough young people who were caught with drugs and cigarettes (!), or stealing just because they could, and found in their files records of psychiatric therapy.  _But that's superficial,_  he reminds himself. He is just trying to tell himself it was a textbook definition he missed in his own fury at Erik's criminal behavior.

He should have known better because Erik is his  _friend_.

Ismael feels sick to his stomach. All this has come to him so fast and relentless that the last pancake has barely had time to turn golden along the edges. He pokes at it with his fork and pulls it back out, finding it clean and batterless. Done, then. He flips it onto the rest of Erik's stack, which he'd finished first but decided then and there to give him the last. His own stack was already just two. Had he meant to give Erik most of the pancakes?

Maybe. He's been doing a lot of things without thinking about it lately.

Ismael finishes setting out silverware and syrup on the table, Erik seemingly oblivious and still shaking. But he knows that Erik knows he is watching him. Two glasses he sits in front of the folded man, and pours perhaps slightly more orange juice for Erik than he needed to.

Because he says muffled behind his arms, "I don't want anything."

Ismael clicks his tongue several times, and on a whim tossels Erik's graying and thinning hair. Only 45 and already he is losing his one attractive quality — his lustrous dark locks.

That isn't true, though. There is still something quite handsome in the way those hands seize up upon Ismael's touch.

"You will have breakfast, and you will like it."

A shaded eye peaks up from underneath the crook of his elbow. It dance-gleams in the fluorescent light of his kitchen. "Or else what, you goat?"

"No 'or else.' It's because I know you will."

Erik rolls that eye and falls back into hidden place.

Ismael smiles sadly, but he goes to the fridge and extracts the items he bought early this morning, before Erik had even woken up. He slices them carefully, making sure to discard the green leaves in the garbage disposal, before he arranges them in an aesthetically pleasing manner atop Erik's stack. He sets his own pancakes on the place setting next to Erik's. Then, with the larger stack in hand, he comes around the counter and sits next to him on the high top chair. He pauses briefly, contemplating… something in his chest he couldn't name, before he gently rests the plate in front of his friend's arms.

Erik sits up at the movement, eyes blinking and unfocused until they spot the patch of pinkish red atop the stack of pancakes. Arms unfolding, his torso expanding with a relieved breath, and it's all Ismael can do not to wrap him in his arms.

"Strawberries," Erik whispers, as though he hasn't seen them in years. (Perhaps he hasn't; Ismael doesn't know exactly how well he'd been eating since before he'd found himself in his company again. This is going to change exactly  _right now._ ) Apart from this, he seems to be at a loss for words.

Ismael hopes he will say something, but it doesn't seem likely. An eerie contentedness floods him, as though making Erik's mouth upturn in the barest hint of a smile was all the sustenance he'd need for the rest of his life. Had he even been paying attention to  _himself_?

" _Please_ , Erik," he says, gripping the hand held tightly into a fist on his thigh. Erik looks astonished. "Don't sink so far into yourself you'll never come back up."

His head turns, and it's easier to see now how red his eyes are — whether from the alcohol last night (doubtful) or the weeks of sleeplessness he couldn't shake, or the breadth of his emotions overtaking him every day, it doesn't matter. Ismael is ashamed he didn't notice them before. Unmasked in his apartment, somehow he's always avoided looking directly at his face when he talks to him. A reflex he should have abandoned ages ago.

Ismael boldly looks into his eyes and smiles.

He is startled when bony, energetic arms find their way around his waist and seal him into a vice grip. He has to adjust his ribcage so that he can breathe, but when he does he buries his face into Erik's shaking shoulder, and palms the ridges of his spine in return.

"You don't have to be afraid anymore. You're safe now. With me."

He has the sneaking suspicion that he wants Erik to stay.

**Author's Note:**

> Please read and review! There is a sequel in the works, so keep an eye out for that!


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